


The Sanderson Affair

by RebeccaOTool



Category: Hocus Pocus (1993), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bat!John, Batjohn - Freeform, Crossover, Drabble, Gen, Halloween, real magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaOTool/pseuds/RebeccaOTool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock really needs to reign in that curiosity. Part of my ongoing quest to make silly things feasible with cannon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Why the hell did you have to touch that book!" John hissed as Sherlock ducked down under the table with him.

"I wanted to see if it was really bound with human skin." Sherlock looked at him as if this should have been obvious.

"Because you can tell—Oh my God, you can tell.” John buried his face in his hands. He should have known better than to mention his date with the American history-nerd patient to Sherlock. He’d scared off the girl and insisted on completing the journey through the museum’s special traveling exhibit from Salem, as it was ‘slightly less boring than being in the flat.’

"Well, you didn’t have to light that candle!"

"I wanted to see—"

"If it was really made from human fat, I know." John whisper-snarled. "You could have had ME do it! I’m not a bloody virgin."

"John, they’re clearly not REAL witches!" Sherlock growled as the three women proceed to rampage through the exhibit.

"Then why are we hiding?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, found he had no answer, and promptly crawled out from under the table.

"Sherlock!" John followed him out, feeling both foolish and angry. The couldn’t be REAL witches, but something was definitely wrong here.

A red-haired woman with the biggest buckteeth John had ever seen stared at them. “One of YOU lit the black flame candle?”

"Erm, yeah." John laughed nervously, eyes darting to Sherlock. "Sorry we um, interrupted your, eh, show?"

"Brave virgin." An absolutely gorgeous blond cooed at Sherlock. "I’ll be thy friend."

Sherlock recoiled as if from a nasty smell. “Who are you, and where did you get those authentic clothes? They aren’t from the exhibit.”

"Winnie—" A large brunette sniffed at them. "They have no children."

"Then let us away. We’ve no time for fools." She looked over John, one brow raised. "Even comely one."

John shifted uncomfortably. “Um, sorry, you really shouldn’t be touching that book, it’s—”

The next thing John knew, he was floating in midair, a bolt of pain driving through his stomach.

"JOHN!" Sherlock dove at the red-haired woman holding him aloft. "YOU LEAVE MY PARTNER ALONE!"

John promptly dropped like a stone to the floor. He groaned and curled into a ball while Sherlock scuffled with the witches.

"Sisters!" ‘Winnie’ squealed when Sherlock wrested the book from her hands. "Stop him! He has the BOOK!"

"John, COME ON!" Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him into a run.

"Did you just steal from WITCHES?!"

"Would you have me leave it with them?!" Sherlock snarled as they sped down the marbled hall. "There’s a spell in here to turn a man into a cat—among other things!"

John shut up and kept running. He tried not to notice the book glaring at him as he did.


	2. Chapter 2

“Broomsticks cannot fly.” Sherlock’s face was screwed into sullen disbelief. “It’s impossible. And improbable.”

Winifred smirked. “Over three hundred years since my sisters and I were sent to hell, and men are just as stubborn as ever.”

Sherlock just had to open the book. John glared at him, but the wadded rag stuffed in his mouth prevented any meaningful conversations. The blond sister, Sarah, was running her hands through his hair and cooing over him. Mary, the brunette, was working on something in a huge black cauldron, growling occasionally at John. They’d said something about children, but there were none of those about, thank God.

“This could all be a drug-induced hallucination.” Sherlock continued, keeping his eyes off the book, which was glaring at him. 

John was sure that book had ratted them out somehow, bringing the broomstick-riding witches to 221b Baker Street. His stomach was still wobbly from the ride to--to--well, somewhere very witchy was all he knew. Probably the museum storage wing.

“I do not care if you believe, half-believe, or don’t believe at all.” Winifred smiled wickedly, teeth glinting in the cauldron’s glow. “If I thought it wouldn’t draw attantion, I’d kill you now. But, you are slightly more useful alive than dead.”

“Did Moriarty put you up to this? Or Mycroft?” Sherlock ignored the threat. “Whoever it was, I assure you, I’m not convinced.”

“Winnie, maybe we should just leave them here. I mean, we need to get children.” Mary looked up from the brew, smiling gently.

“Why leave them when we could use them?” Mary flashed her sister a look and Mary broke into a grin. “BooOOOOOooook?”

To John’s astonishment (he was getting tired of that emotion) the book levitated through the air into Winifred’s hands. It cracked open and pages began flipping about.

“If you’re going to turn me into a zombie, make sure you get the neuro-toxin ratio correct. I’d hate to be rendered brain-dead.” Sherlock said dryly. John groaned. Even if this was a hallucination, provoking their captors wasn’t a good idea.

“Oh, no.” Winifred nearly giggled as her finger landed amidst the pages. “No, zombies are misloyal at best. Hostages however work wonders.”

Sherlock’s eyes hardened. “If you hurt John---”

“Lemme play with him--”

“NO!” Winifred and Sherlock snapped at the same time. Sarah withdrew her hand from John’s scalp, sharp nails raking through his hair. Her jerked, but he was tied to a very large, heavy wooden chair. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“I have a better idea.” Winifred snapped the book shut.

“Don’t touch him!” Sherlock struggled, but was similarly bound. The three gather around John, shielding Sherlock from the view. His heat began to hammer. Real witches or no, John couldn’t defend himself. “John!”

Winifred’s voice was low and hoarse. “Rack the arms and bend the spine--”

“--Ibbity bobbity hobbity mystical--”

“--fur and flesh be intertwined--”

“Give him claws, black and dark--”

“--Just--”

“--Like--”

“--Mine.”

Sherlock struggled to see around the hags: John was screaming now, in very bad pain, worse than anything Sherlock had seen him go through. Through gaps, he could make out John writing, twisting, back arched, shrinking into his clothes--

Shrinking?!

“I must be drugged.” Sherlock murmured. Nothing aside from what he was seeing led him to believe that, though: his heartbeat wasn’t elevated, not was his temperature, eyes weren’t dilated, sounds weren’t--

Oh. Oh damnit, he wasn’t drugged. But that could only mean--

The three women broke apart, revealing a chair empty aside from John’s clothes, still tied to the chair.

“Where is he?” Sherlock tried not to let his fear show. Magic existed. His world of logic and reason was crumbling in front of his eyes. “John?”

Something wriggled in the pile of fabric. Sherlock jolted as Winifred reached into the pile of clothing. “Mary, get the cage.”

“Yes Winnie, right away.” Mary murmured softly and went rummaging through the boxes.

Something squeaked in the pile, and Sherlock shuddered. He didn’t like rats. No, John wasn’t a rat, that was silly.

He blanched as Winifred withdrew a bat from the fabric. The thing squeaked and fought, little wings flapping like mad. “We dids’t him no harm, Sherlock.”

“That is not John.” Sherlock growled. “It’s a trick.”

“Oh really?” Winifred let go of the creature. It flapped a few times mid-air, struggling to stay aloft. It was as if it’d never flown before. After a few more awkward seconds, it landed in Sherlock’s lap with a tiny thump.

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He looked down to study the creature. Small brown bat, commonly found in America, fur a good deal lighter than was normal--almost a sandy blond.

The thing looked up at him, large blue eyes wide and frightened. A small twisted scar stretched across one wing. No wonder it couldn’t fly properly. 

Sherlock swallowed hard. “John.”

The little creature squeaked--of course it wouldn’t be able to talk, bats didn’t have anything like human vocal cords--and clambered up his coat, little clawed feet and wings finding easy purchase. To Sherlock’s mounting amazement, it kept climbing until it reached the top of his head and snuggled down into the curls. 

Mary approached the bat, cage in one hand. It--the bat--John--hissed at her and tried to cling to Sherlock’s skull. “Ooh!”

“Mary, get the little wing-ed rat!” Winifred commanded. “Let’s see what Sherlock does when we have his precious pet at our--AHH!”

The AHH came as John jumped off Sherlock’s head and took to the air. Damaged wing or not, he could fly a bit, and was soon swooping around the head witch’s head. Soon all three were shrieking, grabbing their brooms, and trying to swat John out of the air.

Sherlock’s eyes tracked John’s flight. He was learning quickly, but sooner or later one of the brooms would get him. Then into the cage, and they’d have Sherlock at their bidding. 

Sherlock worked his wrists against the knots. He could slip them, two more seconds, then grab John and run for the nearest church, synagogue, mosque, or cemetery. Anything hallowed.

Just as Sherlock freed himself, John flew into his coat, claws snagging so he hung upside-down. Sherlock raced past the witches, dodging lightning bolts as he went. They had the spellbook again, there was no way to change John back without it (as least as far as he was aware). He needed that book.

Sherlock spun abruptly, and John lost his tenuous grasp on the coat. Sherlock caught him with one hand (he was a very little bat) and tucked him into the overcoat’s pocket, ignoring the resultant squeaks. John’s mind was clearly intact, no worries there. 

The three witches advanced on him, electricity crackling between Winifred’s fingertips.

“Dost thou wish to die?” She hisses. “I can arrange it.”

He kept his eyes off the book tucked under one arm. “I propose a trade. I’ll do what you want, give you whatever knowledge you like, but John stays with me. When this is over, you change him back, thus ensuring my loyalty throughout. Deal?”

The three stopped advancing, looking a bit confused. 

“Winnie...it’s a good deal.” Mary looked at her sister. “He can lead us to children.”

John poked his tiny head out of Sherlock’s pocket and began squeaking at him. The insanity must have been wearing on him: Sherlock was sure he heard a few English syllables among the squeaks. 

“I don’t trust you.” Winifred’s hand closed, the sparks dying off.

“Nor I you.” Sherlock said smoothly, drawing closer. “But I need my companion humanized.”

John squeaked in protest. Sherlock gently patted his head, forcing him back into the pocket.

Winifred put one hand to her chin in contemplation. “If you lead us to children, then I suppose we could change your little pet back into a man.”

Sherlock smiled warmly and closed the gap, one hand out for a shake. “Deal.”

As Winifred reached, he snatched the book, turned, and darted down the hallway.

“BoooOOOOOOoook!” The witch screamed and jumped astride her broom, zooming after them. Sherlock felt the book tug back, trying to escape. He tightened his grip and ran faster.

John poked his head out and chittered at him.

“Oh please John, I wasn’t going to lead them to children.” Sherlock panted for breath. “But I can’t leave you like that either. We’ll take this to hallowed ground and find the right spell.”

As he raced out of the museum, the door slammed behind him, slowing the witches. Sherlock confirmed John was safely secreted in his pocket and headed for the nearest graveyard. They wern't safe yet.

00o0o0o0

Yeah...no explanation

**Author's Note:**

> Combining two of my favorite things? Of course!


End file.
